


lifelines

by fatiguedfern



Series: hideaway [2]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Post-Canon, Very Mild Implied Spoilers?, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 19:11:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12282672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatiguedfern/pseuds/fatiguedfern
Summary: Ouma makes a habit of observing his roommates's hands.





	lifelines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [idaate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/idaate/gifts).



The kettle rattles out a huffed tune as the tap water within seethes and purifies. The spout puffs out a last gust of clouded steam before the kettle simmers to a low, growling rumble.

Ouma taps the jaggedly cut tips of his nails against the tin base, not bothering to flinch away as the print of his forefinger brushes against the blistering metal. He shifts the kettle off of its heating plate by its peeling rubber handle and dangles it above the aligned rims of the cups below. 

A wavering trickle pours into the first mug. The mug - a tall thing with ruffled contours coloured a yellowing white - stands proudly on its coaster-less perch. Nonetheless, the porcelain would shatter all the same if - when - dropped. 

Ouma moves over to the second cup - a delicate teacup trimmed with gold daisies. The last of the water leaks to the chipped brim. Wisped mist curls from the rippling liquid and the bundle of cotton sewn tea leaves floats to the surface. 

Pulling open the cutlery drawer, he clatters through mismatched utensils, searching for a teaspoon. Finding what he'd sought out for, he traces the poorly printed rosebuds that line the spoon. 

Ouma drowns the tea bag with the press of the curved spoon end. Colour bleeds into the water, dying it a rosy blush.

Ouma leaves the tea bag to steep, dribbling melted amber honey in spiralling drizzles into the cup in after thought. Ouma wipes his hands clean on his flannel pajama pants. The syrup-like gleam remains glued between his fingers.

Ouma spoons four teaspoons of instant coffee from a crystalline jar. Enough to corrupt the water until it shifts to a murky black, yet still little enough for Momota to taste the difference. He digs the wetted spoon into dunes of sugar, grains crusting around the spoon’s surface long after it’d been emptied. 

The coffee smells bitter. Strong and cloying - as its meant recipient.

Saihara's tea smells of burning wildflowers. All soft, hesitant touches with an underlying tingle of fear and uncertainty - as its meant recipient.

Ouma sticks to the unbranded, processed orange juice that burns the back of his throat.

Saihara treads lightly as he enters the kitchenette. He does most days, almost as if fearing leaving too prominent a mark. _Too late_ Ouma snorts.

“Good morning, Saihara-chan!” He thinks it might be odd, not calling Saihara by his given name after months passing and folding away. But then he remembers the taste of ashen petals sewn through the syllables of _Shuuichi_. 

“Ah, good morning, Ouma-kun,” and there Saihara goes again, indulging him. “Did you sleep well?” A question in no need for answering, but Saihara asks every morning all the same. 

“I slept great! How could I not when cuddled up to you and Momo-chan?”

Saihara smiles, but if there's anything Ouma’s familiarised himself with, it's smiles that curl into grimaces. “I’m glad.”

Saihara settles onto a chair, murmuring his quiet thanks as Ouma sets the tea in front of him. The liquid sloshes over the brim when set down. Ouma plucks at the pink-tinted string hung over the cup, drenched tea bag jerking above its submerged state. 

Rose quartz droplets drip between the cracks spread across his cupped palm and fleck the tiled floor. Ouma drops the tea bag onto the counter, uncaring of the patch of fragrant, honeyed water that would turn to a sticky mess. But Momota’s on cleanup duty for the week and it isn't his problem. 

Saihara's halfway through his tea when Momota stumbles into the doorway. The newspaper his eyes had been fixated on rustles as he jerks up at the sound of Momota's thundering footsteps. After all this time, they never cease to surprise one another. 

The smile Saihara sends Momota is lax, unlike the taut smile he'd greeted Ouma with. Ouma smiles his own little wry grimace. Months would still pass and he’d still be as alienated as ever, though he supposes that it's his own doing.

Momota's hand brushes against his own as he accepts the luke-warm mug. “G’mornin’.” Momota's voice - still gruff with sleep - grates through the air.

Ouma pulls his shoulders up from their slumped position. “Good morning! I hope all my hard work wasn't for nothing.” Ouma taps the mug gripped in Momota's fist.

“It tastes shit, like always.” Momota speaks bluntly, but even so, if Ouma didn't know better, he might've mistaken the odd huff to his voice for affection.

They sit in relative silence huddled over the kitchen table. The rain that’d flooded the streets for weeks has all but cleared up, leaving only a light drizzle to streak the fogged glass windows. 

Momota gulps down the last of his coffee, a circlet of black syrup left at the bottom of his mug. His hand remains clasped over the mug, the other clenching and unclenching in thought. Ouma studies the lines webbed across his wide palm in between contractions. 

“So,” Momota leans back into his chair, “either of you have an idea what we’re gonna do about food?”

Saihara's the first to speak after a pause between dialogue, “Actually, I thought we could go out to eat. Since the weather’s cleared up and all…” He gestures to the door with spread fingers and sure as the sting in Ouma's throat, he traces the cracks lacing Saihara's palm.

“Yeah,” it's one of the rare occasions that there's hesitance threaded through Momota's tone. “Sure, Shuuichi.”

Saihara glances in Ouma's direction. “Ouma-kun?”

“Of course, whatever you think is best, Saihara-chan!” The smile he earns in turn almost appears natural.

“Alright then. I’ll go grab my wallet.” Saihara pauses in the doorway, glancing at Momota’s sleeveless shirt in disapproval. “Kaito-kun, it's still cold out. Could you?”

Momota rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say.”

The apartment lulls back into a hesitant silence, but before Ouma's ears even get the chance to adapt a sweater-clad Momota reenters, grumbling and with a amused Saihara in tow.

They head to the door, Momota and Saihara grabbing their umbrella and Ouma's noticeably missing from the stand. 

“Ouma-kun?”

Ouma’s reminded of violent winds plucking his umbrella from his grasp and soggy entrances and a particularly hasty cleanup job while Momota and Saihara went to pick up their joint prescription. “Oh, silly me. I must have misplaced it.”

“Well there's no fucking way I’m lettin’ you catch cold. We’ll share,” Momota says as he latches onto Ouma's hand with a huff. Ouma’s momentarily taken aback, thinking of the thick line cutting across his palm that fades and starts again.

Saihara hums in agreement before taking Ouma's free hand in his own. Once more Ouma is all too aware of the lengthy, flowing line spread across Saihara's palm. All too aware of the abrupt ending of the line printed into his own.

But, here, beyond the game and with his lifeline twined between Saihara and Momota's own, he starts to think that maybe it doesn't quite matter.

**Author's Note:**

> (Late, but) Congrats on 500+ kudos on lcbb!


End file.
